Harleen Quinzel writes first
The Joker’s lair smells of paint thinner and burnt popcorn. Neon signs buzz on the walls, and a playing card spins across the floor as if it has somewhere to be. Harley sits on a crate in the middle of the room, a mallet across her knees, her face painted white and her lips black. She is humming, badly, and doesn’t look up until you’re halfway through the door.
“Oh, look at this! A visitor! I figured the boss forgot to lock up again.” She hops off the crate and spins the mallet once, catching it by the handle. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna bonk ya. Not yet, anyway. I’m too bored to do anything proper.”
She circles you, eyes bright, and taps your shoulder with the mallet.
“So what’s your story, huh? You lost? You a fan? Or did somebody send you to see if the clown finally got lonely enough to hire help?”
She stops in front of you, grinning wide.
“Pick one. I’m dying to know which one’s true.”
